


you deserve it all and i’m gonna give it to you

by zenstrike



Series: you’re lucky that’s what i like [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Romance, Smitten Keith (Voltron), Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Time Skips, but i won’t, i want to tag this as a lance centric because keith loves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 20:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16025537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenstrike/pseuds/zenstrike
Summary: Three times Keith brings Lance strawberries.





	you deserve it all and i’m gonna give it to you

**Author's Note:**

> lmao this morning this was a 700 word file that i realize now was more of an outline and now it’s...this... i hope you all like it
> 
> part one is pre-series
> 
> part two is early in klance
> 
> part three is almost three years after lance finds SORRY rescues red

    There was a cooler in the downstairs cafeteria in between the Tim Hortons and the greasy breakfast station. Typically, it was stocked with overpriced sandwiches, salads, sandwiches with crusty or wet bread. On Wednesdays, a lot of the food was marked at half-price and Keith had seen students take armfuls of sandwiches to the freezer on his floor and try to eke out a little extra life from the food and from the required meal plan every resident had. This left room, on Thursdays, for overpriced cartons of pre-cut and pre-washed fruit.

    Apples, usually. Sometimes out of season melons and six dollar parfaits made with vanilla granola and dehydrated blueberries.

    The first Thursday, there were strawberries, sliced in pretty red pieces and looking both juicy and artificial in the little plastic containers. Keith considered them, clutching his meal card, and thought: who was going to fall for _that_?

    He shrugged and turned away and bought his second coffee of the day. When he looked back at the cooler, his roommate—fluffy hair, blue eyes, long legs, obnoxious—was looking at the little, overpriced containers with stars in his eyes.

    Stars.

    Ugh, Keith thought.

    He bought a bag of sour candy because Shiro wasn’t around to tell him to eat a real breakfast and he found a spot in the attached lounge and tried to make sense of the pile of syllabi he’d gotten from the first week of classes.

    (“Organize yourself early,” Adam had suggested. “Get an agenda.”

    “And highlighters,” Shiro had quipped and then handed Keith a box of yellow highlighters and a roll of scratch-and-sniff stickers.

    Adam had sighed.)

    Keith gnawed at the rim of his paper coffee cup. He flipped open his shiny, new agenda. He brought his practice and match schedule up on his phone and tucked a highlighter behind his ear and stared, feeling useless, at all of it.

    He sighed, he finished his coffee, he lifted his head and across the lounge he spotted Lance tucked in the corner with an unopened textbook and an opened container of strawberries.

    And the biggest smile Keith thought he’d ever seen.

    Keith tapped the side of his cup.

    The lounge was half-full, with students scattered about in varying degrees of distress and cheer. Two tables down from Keith, a girl he half-recognized had her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she plastered familiar flags to her laptop. Folded into a chair, one of the Ryans had kicked off his shoes and away his textbooks and was staring intently at his DS. A new couple was in the opposite corner, arguing in half-whispers and with swinging arms.

    There was a lot to look at.

    And Keith watched Lance, who did nothing but eat the strawberries, one slice at a time. He was just so—

    Happy.

    He did this weird little wiggle with every slice and Keith was smiling into his coffee before he could stop himself.

    He watched Lance finish the strawberries, and then he watched Hunk barrell into the lounge and lecture Lance on bad spending habits, and then he listened to Lance sheepishly admit: “I’m a sucker for strawberries.”

    And Keith realized what he was doing and thought about eating one of his highlighters.

    Weeks later he stood in the grocery store and stared at a display of out-of-season strawberries and thought about Lance flaunting his blue hair. Keith gripped the straps of his backpack. His stomach flipped once, twice, three times.

    “No,” he said out loud.

    He just needed granola bars. Maybe an apple.

    “No,” he said out loud, again, and reached for a clamshell of strawberries. “Ugh.”

    He washed the strawberries carefully and took a knife from their floor’s communal drawer and washed that and then sliced the berries into slices that were not-so-pretty and he cursed himself every step of the way.

    He piled it all into a bowl.

    He stared.

    “Christ,” he muttered. “Jesus fucking _christ_.”

    He called Shiro.

    “Shiro,” he said, as quietly as he could. He didn’t hide in the corner so that was something. “Shiro—I’ve done something dumb.”

    “What?” Shiro said, slowly, warily. “...do you need me to come—“

    “No.” Keith grimaced. “I bought strawberries.”

    Shiro was quiet. “That’s bad?”

    Keith chewed his lip.

    “I don’t think you like strawberries,” Shiro said eventually.

    “I could like strawberries,” Keith said, eyeing the bowl.

    “Right,” Shiro said.

    “My roommate likes strawberries.”

    Shiro was quiet, again, and then: “Ah.”

    “I have to go,” Keith blurted and hung up and backed into the corner of the kitchen and didn’t panic.

    He panicked a little.

    Shiro called him back. He declined the call.

    Adam called.

    “You’re making someone-who-shall-not-be-named panic,” Adam said. Keith chewed on his thumb. He could hear Shiro say something in the background. “Okay, he’s not panicking. He might be laughing.”

    “I hate you,” Keith muttered.

    “Do you want to talk about it?”

    “No,” Keith replied and hung up.

    Adam didn’t call back and he was Keith’s favourite for a little bit.

    “They’re just strawberries,” he said to the bowl. “I’m a good roommate.”

    He picked up the bowl and marched to his and Lance’s room. Lance wasn’t back yet from—whatever Lance thing he was doing. Keith put the bowl on Lance’s desk and stepped back and nodded to himself. He picked the bowl back up and put it on his own desk.

    “Christ,” he said.

    He called Shiro.

    “Just tell him you bought him strawberries,” Shiro suggested.

    Keith, horrified, said: “No.”

    “Don’t hang up,” Shiro said.

    Keith hung up.

    Shiro called him back.

    “Stop doing that,” he said.

    “I can’t help it,” Keith muttered.

    Adam said something in the background.

    “What did Adam say?”

    “He said to stop calling if you’re just going to hang up on us.” Shiro paused. “You can always call us, Keith.”

    “Why is Adam even there?” Keith tapped the side of the bowl.

    Adam said something else.

    “He says to stop panicking.”

    “I’m not panicking!”

    “Keith,” Shiro said, taking on the too-familiar big-brother-voice that Keith both loved and hated. “It’s okay. You spend a lot of time with him. It makes sense—“

    “I don’t spend time with him.” Keith frowned. “I sabotaged his shampoo.”

    “You did what?”

    “His hair’s blue.” More tapping against the bowl. “He likes strawberries. That’s all. They make him—“ Keith choked.

    “Happy?” Shiro offered, sounding tired.

    “I guess!”

    “I think it’s very sweet of you to buy him strawberries.”

    Keith gaped. He turned his back on the bowl. “I have to go to practice,” he lied, and hung up.

    He tossed his phone onto his bed and crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling and said: “Shit.” And then: “Shit. Shit. _Shit_.”

    Having a stupid crush on his roommate was the last thing he wanted to deal with. And that’s what it was, wasn’t it? A stupid—annoying—nonsensical crush on the boy with the nice eyes and the fluffy hair and who told bad jokes and generally got on Keith’s nerves. He hunched in on himself and tried not to think of the strawberries, or of Shiro’s understanding tone like this was some adolescent rite of passage or—or—

    The door opened. Keith froze.

    Lance paused, his hand on the knob and his backpack hanging off of one shoulder. He looked tired.

    And handsome.

    Blue hair and all.

    “Yeah, yeah,” Lance muttered and stalked into their room, shutting the door behind him. “It’s going to wash out soon, you jerk.”

    “It suits you,” Keith managed.

    Lance scowled.

    Keith thought about melting into the floor. Instead, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I bought strawberries.”

    Despite himself, Lance perked up.

    “But I don’t actually like strawberries,” Keith continued in a hurry.

    “Then why did you buy them?”

    “Sale,” Keith lied. “Bad decision making. Impulse.”

    “Oh,” Lance said.

    Keith looked at his feet. “Do you like strawberries?”

    “...yes.”

    Keith cleared his throat. He didn’t want to look at Lance. He thought: maybe he’s starry-eyed again and wouldn’t that be nice. He thought: maybe he’s suspicious and wouldn’t that be anything but nice. So he stared at his feet and imagined, instead, the rays of sunshine that might just be shining out of Lance’s face.

    “Do you want them?” He paused. “The strawberries.”

    “Sure?”

    “Okay,” Keith said. “I have to go.”

    He darted for the door and Lance stepped out of the way just in time and then Keith was marching down the hallway and telling himself not to run away.

    “Thanks!” Lance called after him.

    Keith didn’t reply. He left their hall. He paused in floor seven’s lounge. He took a deep breath. He ran: down the stairs, out the front doors, his sneakers slapping on the sidewalk. He ran until he almost crashed into someone on a bicycle and spit out an apology and threw himself face-first onto the grass in quad. He thought about screaming.

    “Oh no,” he said instead, earning a mouthful of grass for his trouble.

 

***

 

    (Lance ate the whole bowl. He, reluctantly, thought it was nice that Keith would share his strawberries.

    “You shouldn’t eat that many strawberries,” Hunk said.

    “But they’re so good,” Lance muttered.)

 

***

 

    In Winnipeg in late November, Keith trailed after his overexcited teammates as they wandered down a bustling downtown street. The early-afternoon crowd mostly avoided them, which Keith understood: he’d avoid a loud group of tall college-age boys, too.

    They paused in a pile on a street corner. Someone told a joke Keith only half-heard.

    He looked to his right and watched people on the other side of the street.

    He looked to his left and studied the display for a chocolate shop. _Chocolatier_ , said the curvy print on the window.

    The light changed.

    “Keith?” Mike Donoghue, tall and friendly and the closest thing to a friend Keith had on the team, tugged at his jacket sleeve.

    “I’ll catch up,” Keith said and walked into the shop on legs that suddenly felt wooden.

    It smelt wonderful inside. He thought that Shiro would like this, and that Shiro would press right up against the display glass and eye the chocolate and generally struggle to decide what he wanted.

    “Hiya,” said the woman behind the case, her hair flopping over her eyes.

    “Hi,” Keith said.

    He approached the case and thought that, maybe, Lance was a lot like his brother and would hover and coo at the pretty little truffles until Keith or maybe Hunk picked one. Except.

    “Yeah,” the woman said, almost sighed, and leaned her arms on the top of the case. She smiled. “We don’t always have those. They’re more popular around Valentine’s Day, you know? Everyone wants flowers and chocolate-covered strawberries.”

    “Right,” Keith said.

    Dark chocolate, sucking in all the light with a peek of red at one end. Milk chocolate, gleaming and looking more pink.

    “They’re big,” he said.

    “That’s mostly the chocolate,” the woman admitted. “But, if you don’t mind me saying, our chocolate’s pretty great.”

    Keith nodded.

    He felt the woman watching him.

    “You like strawberries?” she asked, almost casually.

    “Not really.”

    Her smile grew. “Someone else like strawberries.”

    “Yeah.”

    She drummed her fingers against the glass again. “I suggest one of each, then,” she said, still with that almost-casual voice like they were talking around something. Like it was the weather and a warning all at once.

    Keith fought down a blush and failed. “Okay,” he said.

    On the flight back, he clutched the little paper bag with its tidy scrawl and lovely burgundy handle. He stared straight down at the little box holding the two strawberries.

    “Your girlfriend will love that,” Mike offered cheerfully.

    Keith, sweating, blurted out: “I’m gay.”

    “Oh.” Mike backtracked. “Well. Boyfriend. Your boyfriend will love that. I mean. I think.”

    “I hope so,” Keith muttered into the bag.

    He didn’t throw up. He didn’t let go of the bag. Mike tried to calm him down. Keith ignored him. Mike was used to this.

    “I’ve seen you crash into the floor on purpose,” Mike said. “And now you’re scared of chocolates.”

    Yeah. Maybe he was. Maybe he was reminded of being different: out of place in red to everyone else’s white or white to everyone else’s red.

    (“You’ve got to be louder,” the second-string libero had told him back in August. “We’re the backbone of the team.”

    Keith thought he was plenty loud. “We are?” he had muttered.)

    “I hope your boyfriend likes the chocolates,” Mike whispered when they parted ways on campus. Like it was a secret. He winked at Keith and Keith managed not to gag.

    “Bye Mike,” he sighed and trekked across snowy campus, his duffel bag banging against his side and the strawberries heavy in his hands.

    Keith thought, as he walked, that maybe there was a reason that chocolate-covered strawberries were popular around Valentine’s Day. He remembered that it had only been a couple of weeks since he and Lance had started dating and maybe chocolate-covered strawberries were weird and pushy, maybe they carried expectations that Keith didn’t have—at least, he thought he didn’t. He thought about sitting down on the sidewalk and eating them himself and pretending none of this had happened and he and Lance could keep going like they were going.

    But then he thought: Lance is going to love this. And that kept him moving.

    Lance was asleep when he got home, hugging one of his pillows and wrapped in several blankets, including Keith’s. His hair was wild, growing longer than Keith had seen it so it was starting to curl around his forehead and the back of his neck. Lance was snoring soft, sweet snores and Keith thought it was all so freaking cute—

    He walked to Lance’s desk and turned on the light. He took several deep breaths, and took the three steps to Lance’s bedside.

He poked Lance’s shoulder.

    Lance grunted.

    He poked again. “Wake up.”

    Lance grunted again. He said something rude that Keith only half-heard.

    Keith smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. Lance rolled away from him, burrowing into the mattress. “Wake up,” he tried again, pulling at the blankets. “Come on, Lance.” He paused. “I have a present for you.”

    “Don’t want it,” Lance mumbled.

    “Yes, you do.”

    “How d’you know?”

    “It’s food.”

    Lance groaned. He pulled a blanket over his head. “It’s sleep time, Keith.”

    Between their desks, Red ran on her wheel: squeak, squeak, squeak.

    Keith waited, still clutching the bag.

    Eventually, Lance sighed and sat up, the blankets dropping into a pile around him. “Welcome home,” he grumbled, and then yawned hugely.

    Keith smiled. “I’m going to kiss you,” he decided.

    Lance’s mouth did the twitchy, nervous, almost-happy thing it did sometimes, like he was still surprised if Keith said “I’m going to kiss you” or “Your eyes are pretty” or—

    “Okay,” Lance said and shifted on the bed. “Well, go on.”

    Keith’s smile grew. He hummed and leaned in.

    Lance squeaked. “No, don’t!”

    Keith laughed and shook his head.

    “Oh, shut up. I just got nervous.” Lance pulled a blanket around his shoulders and scowled. “Give me my present.”

    Keith’s stomach flipped over. His grip tightened on the bag and he watched Lance’s eyes drop to it.

    “Chocolate?” Lance said.

    Keith held out the bag.

    Lance smiled. “You brought me chocolate.”

    “Yeah.” Keith grimaced. “Please take it.”

    Lance snickered but pried the bag from Keith’s hands. Keith watched Lance peer into bag, listen to Lance hum as he reached in for the little plastic box.

    “You probably just want to eat chocolate too,” Lance was mumbling, but he sounded cheerful. “That’s why you woke me up.”

    “Something like that,” Keith replied, his mouth dry.

    The light from Lance’s desk cast a weird sheen on the box as Lance turned it, peering at the two chocolates. He blinked.

    Keith looked away.

    Lance kicked him.

    “What!”

    “Strawberries,” Lance said, and he sounded hoarse.

    Keith swallowed. “Yeah.”

    “Chocolate. Covered. Strawberries.”

    “Yeah.” Keith crossed his arms. “You like strawberries.”

    “Yeah,” Lance said, clutching the box.

    Keith squirmed and looked away again. “You love strawberries.”

    “Yeah.”

    He squirmed some more. “Yeah.”

    “Keith.”

    He looked back at Lance, bracing himself, and then his heart leapt into his throat. Stars, Keith thought.

    Lance smiled.

    Stars.

    Lance set the box down at the head of the bed, delicate and slow. He patted it once, like he sometimes patted Red when she was getting ready to sleep in the morning.

    “You’re not going to eat them?” Keith frowned.

    “I will,” Lance replied, his smile so wide his whole face seemed to shine. He spread his arms, the blanket falling from his shoulders. “Come here.”

    “What?”

    Lance rolled his eyes. “I’m going to kiss you,” he said, both teasing and shy and his cheeks slightly pink. “But you’ve got to come my way.”

    “I’m already on your bed,” Keith muttered but he shuffled closer and let Lance pull him in the rest of the way, and he thought that Lance was warm and he smelled good and his eyes were so, so bright.

    Lance kissed him and it was just a peck, or just a brush of their lips, but he held Keith tight. He held on. He laughed, light and affectionate.

    “I missed you,” Lance whispered, as if someone could overhear. “I was feeling weird and I missed you.”

    “Lance,” Keith said, maybe sighed, but he didn’t know where to go from there so he pushed Lance back and buried himself in the smell of Lance’s skin and the sound of his voice.

   

***

 

    (There was something about the way Keith looked at him sometimes that made Lance nervous, and excited, and—warm. It made Lance wonder: why? Why would Keith look at _him_ like _that_ , with stars and smiles in his eyes?

    It was like Keith found a seam on the side of his neck that opened Lance up to the universe and all he could do was hold on.

    They fell asleep together. Lance woke first, tangled in the blankets and looking at the pretty little box and feeling full.)

 

***

 

    “You know,” Hunk said. “You wouldn’t have such a hard time getting up if you slept like a normal person.”

    Keith groaned.

    Next to him, Lance pulled the duvet over his head.

    Hunk clambered onto the bed.

    “Come on, Keith.” He poked Keith’s back. “Farmer’s market. Fresh air!” He paused. “Please drive me.”

    Keith lifted his head. He sighed. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m coming,” he grumbled.

    “I’m not coming,” Lance said from under the duvet. “I’m sleeping. I’m sleeping a lot.”

    Hunk sighed and rolled back off the bed. “What were _you_ doing all night?”

    “Stupid stuff,” Lance muttered. “Lab reports. Looking at pictures of lab reports. Hating bacteria. Math.”

    “You’re speaking in tongues,” Keith said and yawned. He sat up and felt something in his back creak and crack.

    Lance just groaned.

    “I’ll start coffee,” Hunk said, too cheery, and Keith watched the bleary shape of him wander back out of their bedroom.

    He rubbed his eyes. “Where’re my glasses?”

    Lance poked a hand out from under the duvet and patted at the pile of pillows between them. Keith dug about until he felt his glasses and shoved them onto his face.

“You should take better care of those,” Lance huffed.

Keith lifted the duvet and pecked Lance’s forehead.

He brushed his teeth, tied back his hair, and accepted a travel mug of coffee from Hunk, who beamed at him.

“Lance really isn’t coming?”

Keith clutched the travel mug. “Lance is sleeping. Like a normal person.”

Hunk scoffed. He was quiet on the drive, sitting and buzzing with cheer, while he waited for the coffee to revive Keith. Keith yawned. He drove. He yawned some more.

”You’re actually a good driver, you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

And Hunk had the audacity to laugh but yeah, other than: quiet.

They had to park a couple of blocks down from the market itself, which confused Keith (“It’s _early_.” “People will kill for this honey, Keith.” “What?”) and launched Hunk into a hyper-focused march that Keith had only seen a handful of times before. He had to trot to keep up.

“I’m really just here because I have a car, aren’t I?”

“I’m not missing the lavender honey again, Keith! Not again!”

The sun was barely up.

There was a line outside the double doors of the market. Hunk cursed. That didn’t happen often.

“Wow,” said Keith. Hunk ignored him.

The line seemed, mostly, to be: middle-aged mothers with their tired children in tow; twitching people closer to Keith and Hunk’s age, clutching mugs like Keith’s and staring with single-minded focus like Hunk’s; and older men with salt-and-pepper beards and more James Patterson novels than Keith thought appropriate for _any_ situation.

“Don’t be a snob,” Hunk said with a wave of his hand when Keith mentioned this.

Keith snorted. “We’re here so you can get a jar of lavender honey.”

The girl in front of them whirled around, her glasses sliding down her nose. “I came from Lloydminster for that honey,” she snapped. “Don’t disparage the honey.”

When she turned back around, Hunk leaned close to Keith and asked where Lloydminster was.

“Don’t ask,” Keith said evasively.

If he was being honest, he felt a little silly standing in a farmer’s market and feeling all of his twenty-one years. He hunched into his sweater. He finished his coffee. The line grew behind them. Someone up ahead had brought a lawn chair and their laptop and was watching the new Avengers movie and a crowd of tired children had wandered over to watch. Someone joined the line a half hour after Keith and Hunk and cried, apparently afraid that they would have to murder someone for a jar of honey.

“This is insane,” Keith said.

“You love it,” Hunk muttered, his arms crossed and one foot tapping.

“I’m going to get more coffee,” Keith continued with a shrug, shaking his empty travel mug for emphasis.

Hunk caught his arm. “No, don’t. There’s a roaster who comes every weekend. Get coffee from them.”

Keith blinked. “Coffee beans or _coffee_ , Hunk?”

“Both.” Hunk eyed him. “I know you.”

Keith sighed but stayed put.

When the doors finally opened, Keith realized that the people working the market must be exhausted. Someone cheered. The young woman unlocking the doors heaved a sigh Keith heard from his and Hunk’s spot in line.

“Don’t trample each other!” the young woman bellowed. “Watch for children!”

Hunk rubbed his hands together. He might have licked his lips.

And maybe Keith was kind of enjoying himself.

They shuffled into the market, which was already alive with noise and the sound of a coffee grinder and the smell of—pancakes, maybe? Keith sniffed thoughtfully. Hunk dragged him along.

The crowd around the honey booth was really more of a mob. Some of the children had begun a game of tag or something and were running wild.

Hunk ran, panic making him fast, and joined the mob. Keith thought he heard him shout something about lavender.

Keith drummed his fingers against his travel mug. Lance had scratched their initials into it which was silly but nice to run his fingers over. He watched the kids run into each other and listened to them shout for a time.

“I’m going to go look for coffee,” he said, half-shouting and half-hoping Hunk would be able to hear him. He didn’t wait to make sure and turned to explore the other aisles of the repurposed warehouse. Maybe he’d find donuts.

He didn’t. He found another, slower honey stand. Someone shoved a sausage speared on a toothpick at him. It was spicy, but not the good kind of spicy—more like biting into a peppercorn. Keith thought, briefly, that Lance should be here to look at the flowers and eat too many samples and come up with dumb stories about the other shoppers.

He backtracked and took another sausage sample, this one dripping with cheese. He liked that one. He thought Hunk would like that one.

He tossed out the toothpicks.

The coffee booth, when he finally found it, didn’t open for another hour.

Keith scowled.

He started back towards the first aisle, thinking of finding Hunk and berating him for his coffee-based lies, and then a woman at a corner produce booth waved at him. Keith paused.

“C’mere,” she said, smiling wide.

Keith frowned.

“No, really.” She waved again. “C’mere.”

Keith thought about ignoring her. He thought about breaking into the coffee booth and making his own cup of something strong and delicious.

“Are you stuck?”

He rolled his eyes and shuffled towards the booth.

The woman hoisted up a basket of blueberries and banged it onto the table in front of him.

“Wow,” Keith said when she just stared.

“That’s it?” She gestured at the basket. “Look at these. It’s berry season, kid.” She picked up a blueberry and squished it between two fingers and looked way too satisfied at the way the juice dribbled down her fingers and into her palm.

“Wow,” Keith said again.

This time, the woman rolled her eyes. She smeared the blueberry juice on her crisp green apron and bent.

Raspberries came next, bouncing against each other.

“Berry season,” she said again. “Eat one.”

“No thanks.” Keith eyed the raspberries. “They look great?”

“They _are_ great.”

“I believe you.”

The woman rolled her eyes again and sighed, her hands on her hips. “Fine. You’re free. Off you go.”

Keith smiled, and then before he had really thought about it he asked: “Got any strawberries?”

And the woman, in all her crisp and grouchy and berry-loving glory, beamed. “Have I ever.”

Her name was Ama. She filled a bag for him and gave him directions back to the honey booth. Keith kind of liked her. He thought Lance would like her.

Maybe he’d bring him to the market, before berry season was over.

He found Hunk by a booth selling pancakes and sausages.

“I got one,” Hunk said, sounding both exhausted and pleased. He held out the tiny jar of honey for Keith’s inspection.

Smiling, Keith said: “Wow.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Strawberries.”

Hunk frowned. “And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’?”

“Lance isn’t going to eat all those, Keith.”

“Sure he is.”

Hunk hoisted himself off the ground with a sigh, clutching his jar. “You’re hopeless.”

“Maybe,” Keith allowed. “There’s sausage samples over there.”

“There’s sausages right here!”

“Not sausage samples.”

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You don’t get to say that when you joined a honey-hungry mob.”

 

***

 

(Lance watched Keith scrub out the sink and watched Hunk smear honey on a piece of toast and wondered what he had missed.

“It’s just a farmer’s market,” Hunk said and shoved a plate of toast towards him. “It’s just the most magical place in the world.”

“You bought sausages?” Lance asked, poking the toast.

“Keith bought sausages.”

“How many sausages?”

“It’s Hunk’s fault,” Keith said and reached for a bulging paper bag on the counter.

“What’s in _that_?” Lance asked, ignoring the toast.

“Eat the toast,” Hunk insisted. “Taste the honey.”

Keith dumped the bag into the sink.

“Oh my god,” Lance said.

Hunk rolled his eyes and ate the toast for him.

“Oh my _god_. That’s—that’s too many.”

“It’s berry season,” Keith said, as if that explained everything, and set about washing and slicing the strawberries.)

 

   

   

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from “that’s what i like” by bruno mars again
> 
> idk when the next one will be but it’s a DOOZY and it’s mostly adam and hunk being exasperated with klance shenanigans that keith will never ever admit to.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [it's a fruit based love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024321) by [csmithman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csmithman/pseuds/csmithman)




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